Swan Song
by Gracie Holmes
Summary: Instead of Sam and Dean Winchester being the vessels of choice for the archangels, Michael and Lucifer, another pair of brothers was chosen. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were not hunters, nor 'Men of Letters'. At most they were familiar with the existence of the supernatural and kept it in their minds for use in their respective fields. Despite that, years ago, Mycroft found himself an angel friend a decade or so back, and she visited a few times a year. It was the only real contact he had.

Essentially, the supernatural world was far away from the Holmes brothers, lost in inconsequential facts and focus on more important things. Humans were just as exciting, if not more dangerous. Unfortunately, that fact was about to change.

Sherlock Holmes had been approached by the devil.

It wasn't a metaphor, or an exaggeration. This was real. The one and only Lucifer, the fallen Morning Star, the disgraced archangel, visited Sherlock in a vivid dream. One that wasn't induced with drug use.

The archangel had taken the form of a redheaded woman, her curvy body wrapped in a black sparkly gown. Green eyes peeked at him under long lashes. Every inch of her spoke about an unsolvable mystery just waiting to be explored. A woman designed to objectify his suppressed human nature. She was exquisite.

"Sherlock Holmes." The way his named roll off of her tongue had been tantalizing. "What do you _desire_?"

But he hadn't been fooled. The beautiful and intriguing woman disappeared, and in her place was a man. The man was scarred, as if there was a fire inside of him and he burned from the inside out. Lucifer himself.

 _One true vessel. Apocalypse. Taking over the whole of Creation, winning against Big Brother. Someday, you'll let me in, Sherlock…_

Sherlock had disregarded it. He didn't have time for whatever supernatural nonsense that was. It's not that he was ignorant to it's existence, he just wan't interested. He had no desire to be a part of that world. He had work and John, and handing his body over to something else wasn't his idea of a good time.

It only took him four weeks to reconsider.

* * *

Pounding feet, labored breathing, a flap of black coat. Two men ran together through the back streets of downtown London.

"Hurry, John! He's getting away."

John Watson put on the extra speed to keep up with the long-legged consulting detective. They were chasing down their latest query, who they had spotted in a sports stop. The details didn't matter, because they would not get the chance to capture him. The man slipped into an abandoned building at the end of a quiet street. Sherlock and John followed close behind, but there was something else waiting for them as they burst into the desolate lobby.

The obviously dead body of the perpetrator was splayed on the ground and near the window, another man stood. Lucifer traced a finger over the frosty glass. Calm, quiet, collected, he didn't look at them when he spoke. "Sorry if it's a bit chilly. Most people think I burn hot. But actually, it's quite the opposite."

Sherlock pulled to a stop, holding out his arm to indicate John should stay behind him. Consciously protective. "Why did you lead me here?" He didn't lower his hand. John's expression betrayed his complete confusion, but he did as ordered and kept his numerous questions to himself.

"I think you know, Sherlock." Lucifer turned away from the window. "You and me, we're the same. Little brothers…desperate for attention. Desperate to be as big and strong as our older brother."

"You and I are nothing alike, Lucifer. We've been over this already."

John interrupted, quietly trying to figure out what was going on. "Lucifer, like the-"

"The devil, yes, John. Do keep up." Sherlock continued as if the interrupted didn't happen. "I don't care if you think we're the same. I'd really like to keep my body to myself. Surely you can find another one of the seven billion humans on the planet to say yes to your ridiculous scheme."

"You know, I really hate to do this. I do so love your live-in doctor, just as much as you do. But you lack the ability to make what you perceive to be stupid decisions." Lucifer snapped his fingers. "You need motivation."

John went down with a cry, his body convulsing as indescribable pain coursed through his body as if every inch of him was both being frozen and burned at the same time. Sherlock scrambled, hands not sure what to do, expression openly worried and incredibly guilty. "John?!"

"Shhh-er…" Tears had fallen down John's cheeks at this point, his veins dilated, his eyes pinched closed.

"Stop it, you stop it right now!" Sherlock had a hand on John's shoulder, as if that could stop the pain.

"I'll keep him safe for you, you do realize this?" Lucifer drawled as he sauntered forward towards them. He crouched down to be at eye-level with Sherlock. "John Watson will be safe, all you need to do is say yes to me."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the archangel devil that he was, and stared down at John. The army doctor didn't have long, there was only so much the human body could take before it gave up. Sherlock's mind raced through all the options he had before him. None of them was best case scenario. He knew his mind. He knew what he could do. He was nearly convinced that letting this angel in wasn't permanent, that he'd be able to have some control. If John died because he said no, Sherlock would never recover. The choice, however difficult, was actually very simple.

"Yes."

"Oooh, I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Lucifer whispered back.

"I said yes, _bloody hell_ , can't you hear me?" Sherlock shot back, fire and defiance in his eyes. "You keep John alive and you can have me, no fight."

Lucifer snapped again and John collapsed on the ground. He was still panting and shaking from the ordeal, but he was alive. Lucifer reached his blistered hand and cupped Sherlock's face. "Thank you, Sherlock. Truly, this is what you were destined for."

An intense light flooded the room, reaching every dark and dusty corner. So much so that John had to turn away and shield his eyes. The temperature dropped drastically until the light was gone and all left was Sherlock slowly standing up from the ground. The burned man had dropped into a crumpled heap. Dead.

John's stormy blue eyes were wide, darting back and forth between Sherlock and the body. He scrambled backwards on the ground, trying to put distance between him and the nightmare. "Sherlock?"

"I would run, if I were you. Run little gingerbread man as fast as you can." Lucifer spoke using Sherlock's voice, casually adjusting the Belstaff and pulling off his scarf. He turned and fixed cold blue eyes on the army doctor. The scarf fell to the ground. "Sherlock's long gone."

John had no idea what was happening. Whether this was a dream, a nightmare, or some poison-induced hallucination. He didn't ask questions, he couldn't. Because his best friend was staring at him as if he was two seconds away from slicing him up for dinner.

John Watson ran away.

* * *

The halls of Sherlock's Mind Palace were spotless. Unlike his organized mess of a flat, the mind palace's first main hallway needed to be clean. It allowed Sherlock to navigate right to where he needed to be. His shoes made no sound as he walked down the long hallway.

"I thought I heard you tip-toeing around here." Lucifer appeared next to Sherlock. An identical twin as far as faces went, but in demeanor and inflection, they were completely different.

"You know you can't keep me in here forever." Sherlock said without looking at his doppelgänger. "I will _burn_ you from the inside."

"I look forward to seeing you try. You won't succeed, of course, but I always did enjoy a good show. Plus your mind is _fascinating._ I'm kind of in love."

Lucifer snapped his fingers again, and a vision of Mycroft appeared in the hallways in front of them. The elder Holmes was dressed in the usual pristine three-piece suit, no umbrella, so his fingers fidgeted by his sides.

"And there he is. Look at him, Sherly. Your big brother. Over-bearing and intense. Snide comment after condescending put-downs. I can't even imagine how hard that was for you growing up…oh wait, I can. See, it happened to me too. My big brother was all: " _Daddy says this" "Don't do that" "Don't touch those pesky little apes, they're important to Daddy._ " I love my brother, but he isn't what's right for me. He wanted to cage me. He did, in fact, and Daddy knows I'm not going back. We're not going back. Your big brother will team up with mine, should be fun."

"My brother doesn't love me." Sherlock said impassively. "If you're looking for a pressure point, that's not it."

"Doesn't he?" Lucifer tsked. "Who knows. But I know one thing. You love him and you are just _torn_ up about the fact that you couldn't live up to his perfect brain. I'm here, in your 'mind palace' whatever, you can't lie to me. I can see it all, I know everything you know. I know that every step you took away from your brother, you took towards me." His voice took an unnaturally emotional quality, almost mocking. "I'm what's best for you, and trust me. We are going to make sure that both of our brothers pay for what they did."

Lucifer squeezed his hand, and the vision of Mycroft clutched at his throat and chest. His mouth gasped for air. Lucifer smiled sinisterly. "This doesn't have to be a bad thing. Your brother will get what he deserves. John will live. Mrs Hudson and George will live. That annoying little mouse Molly will live. It'll be…perfect. I want you to be happy, Sherlock."

"I don't need you to make me happy." Sherlock's jaw clenched, and his eyes were riveted to his brother. It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real, they were in his mind palace. But watching his brother struggle wasn't pleasant. And it hurt him more than he'd ever admit to anyone else.

"You'll change your tune."

With another squeeze, Mycroft dropped. His chest was crushed, his neck bruised purple and red, his body limp and broken, his eyes wide open and staring up at nothing. Blood was seeping out from his mouth, his nose, and up from the collar of his once pink shirt. The British Government and Sherlock voice of reason was dead.

Lucifer dusted off his hands as if they were dirty. "Well that was quite satisfying. Certainly not the first time you'd thought about doing that. We could do it again, if you wanted."

"No," Sherlock interrupted quickly, not tearing his eyes from the lifeless body. "No, I don't need to see that again."

"It's too bad." The devil shot him a wolfish grin. "So…are we having fun yet?"

* * *

"Mycroft, you can't." Naomi's hair was down, her vessel was dressed not in a button up suit, but instead comfortable trousers and an oversized jumper.

Naomi had been an angel of the highest ranking. Her job had been delicate and sensitive, as were most jobs that dealt in information and intelligence. And she'd been good at it, _terrifyingly_ good at it. Despite that, she still respected humans and what they'd accomplished. She had met Mycroft years ago and the two of them had kept fairly regular contact. An unlikely friendship with a human she was inevitably drawn too.

Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he was now Michael's, first Archangel and Ruler of Heaven, true vessel. She wasn't sure anymore.

All had been well until the Apocalypse was looming at the doorstep of Earth. Lucifer was back, Heaven was at war, demands were being made. Naomi found herself on opposite sides of some of the more prominent leaders. A battle was fought and Naomi lost. She retreated to earth and to the home of an old friend to heal from her battle wounds.

"Then what do you expect me to do?" Mycroft turned on his heel and fixed cold blue eyes on her. A rare moment of well-controlled anger. The kind of anger that was usually only brought about by Sherlock in danger or doing something stupid.

This counted as both.

Naomi took his anger with her usual grace, keeping calm to avoid reacting herself. It wouldn't do. "I don't know," she admitted. "But if you give yourself to Michael, you will never come back. You will die. We can find a way to save Sherlock on our own. I think it's our best chance."

Mycroft ran his hands over his face. The problems he'd faced not a week ago as the British Government didn't really compare to the current issue at hand. His brother was gone, stolen by an archangel. Michael himself had visited Mycroft twice now, demanding for use of him as a vessel.

Michael had promised everlasting peace, promised even a reinstating of Naomi back to her place in the angel host. But he couldn't promise Sherlock's safety. And that was Mycroft's highest priority no matter what. Not to mention the fact that saying yes to Michael mean the world as they knew it was going to end. People were going to suffer and die. Mycroft Holmes would not stand for it. There had to be another way.

Naomi stepped just a bit closer, her hands held out in front of her in a non-threatening gesture. "Mycroft, listen to me. We can figure out what to do. We'll stop this."

"How?" Mycroft shot back, regretting the snap a moment later. His shoulders slumped and he covered his eyes with his hand.

Naomi approached carefully, her hands reaching for him until she wrapped her arms around his lean frame. It was a human gesture she still wasn't too sure about. "We'll find a way, I promise." She said quietly. "Together."


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, it was not Mycroft Holmes who became Michael's vessel. It was 'the other one'. Scores and resentments went both ways, traumatic events no one talked about. Mycroft had put the past aside years ago, and their third brother became nothing more than a distant memory and a ring on Mycroft's right hand. The Holmes brother answered 'yes' quickly and without question, disappearing into the night.

Mycroft didn't know what made their brother say yes, but it didn't matter, did it? Sherlock was never coming back, the world would end, and Naomi would perish right along with the rest of them. Mycroft retreated to his study with a bottle of brandy, locking the door behind him. To work out the problem, or maybe he just needed to take a break from the weight of the world that pressed on his back.

Outside the door, Naomi paced the long hallway. Her black flats were silent on the expensive rug over polished wood floors. Her hands wrung, her face wore an expression that spoke of her uncertainty and hurt.

Sherlock was gone, Mycroft was compromised. Michael and Lucifer would tear the world apart. It seemed hopeless. Didn't it? But Naomi had an idea. A horrific idea and it was not going to save Sherlock. But it would save the world, and Mycroft. It seemed the best cause of action with the circumstances they were given.

Naomi couldn't do it alone, and she wasn't going to drag Mycroft along. She needed someone both knowledgeable and determined. Two qualities together were hard to find, not to mention someone who could trust. She knew just the person.

After writing a quick note to Mycroft, she snapped weak wings, tired from the fight and being cut off from Heaven. She had enough power to finish the mission. She had too. Moments later she landed at St Bartholomew's Hospital. She'd never told Molly Hooper that the angel Bartholomew was never one for healing and good will. He was as driven and ruthless as she was. It didn't matter now, did it?

Molly Hooper was not a stranger to the supernatural world either. She'd been a pathologist reference for the hunters in London and would call up her contacts if she came across an obviously supernatural cause of death. Naomi needed her. Her knowledge and determination would be crucial. Not to mention the self-defense classes she had been reluctantly taking.

"Oh, hello." Molly straighten in her seat by the microscope at the sudden appearance of the familiar woman. They'd had wine together on more than on occasion. "Naomi? What's going on?"

Naomi stopped near the door, clasping her hands in front of her. "Molly, I need your help." Pause. "Sherlock and Mycroft need your help."

There was no hesitation. "What can I do?"

Naomi almost smiled, if not for the circumstances. "Suit up, we're going on an adventure."

Twenty minutes later, Naomi equipped Molly with the necessary weapons, supplies, clothes, and a basic run down about what had happened. Molly had tears in her big brown eyes, but the news made her even more determined to help.

They were going after the Horseman's rings. Together.

Naomi's knowledge of Heaven's Intelligence and the work she'd done for thousands of years was a huge stepping stone for them. The Rings would open up the cage again, giving anyone an opportunity to knock Lucifer back to where be belonged. Sherlock would do it, if it meant saving the world. Sacrificing himself to save his brother, his friends. He was strong enough to gain control, she was certain. Otherwise Naomi was prepared to push them in with herself as well.

 _Needs must when the devil drives._ The old saying was nearly ironic at this point.

Pestilence and War were first, each presented their own challenges that the angel and the pathologist faced in turn. Naomi's wings were tired, but she pressed on. It wasn't easy, but together they accomplished each. And when it was through, they put bloodied knives down, and flew out of the line of danger. The rings safely stowed in the pocket of Naomi's jacket.

When they went after Famine, they waded in behind enemy lines into a town completely within the grip of the Horseman. The demons were everywhere, the _hunger_ grew stronger every second they were there. Naomi could _feel_ it into her very being. Her vessel was greatly affected, and the middle-aged woman was very intent to having a piece of chocolate cake. Having the whole cake, as a matter of fact.

Naomi was trying very hard to stay focused, her eyes fierce and her heart so set on Famine's ring. But her desire could not overcome her vessel's. She just could not control the rebelling human body. She sat on the ground in the diner, hands and face covered in frosting

Molly stood, her heart pounding in her chest, but her chin held high and her brown eyes angry. What she most desired, what she was _hungry_ for was not here. He was the vessel of an archangel and she was never going to see him as Sherlock Holmes again. "You will stop this!" She demanded with authority.

Famine laughed at them, wheezing out the sound and taunting words. "You think you're different, Miss Hooper? Your pet angel is reduced to _hunger_ and here you are."

Molly stood her ground, all determination and focus. "Because what I want, what I most desire, I will never have. Because he's going to save the world. You don't own me."

As determined as Molly was, it wasn't enough to stand in front of a squadron of demons. And it wasn't long before she was thrown across the room, landing with a thud on a booth near Naomi. She cried out, struggling to get to her feet almost as soon as she'd landed.

Famine just laughed at them, the hoarse aged sound cackling in his throat. "Finish them. I'm hungry…."

"Stop!" A tall man, with long hair and blood on his lips, clenched his fist in the direction of the Horseman. The events that happened next were impossible for Molly to describe, and she wasn't sure she fully understood it. Her vision was blurry, but the exchange was fierce and demon smoke drifted through the room. But the tall man must have done something to take care of the Horseman. In the end, Famine shriveled and the demons were gone.

The angel unfolded herself from the dirty floor and cleaned herself up quickly once her hunger was gone. She helped Molly stand as well, but her attention was turned elsewhere. Her blue eyes warily scanned the man who'd interrupted them. And in turn had saved their lives. His face was familiar to her. "Sam Winchester."

His hazel eyes snapped away from the dead Horseman and landed on Naomi. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you. My name is Naomi, I'm an angel. You're familiar to us. Castiel and I have spoken." Naomi tucked Molly against her side protectively, but her thoughts were wandering. If only the archangels had chosen the Winchesters, then the Holmes brothers would not have suffered as such. Destiny, how fierce it was. She had no control. She tried a polite smile for the man, but it came out a bit sad. "Thank you, very much. I'm not certain what we could have done without you."

"You know Cas?" Sam was wiping the blood away with his sleeve, but his brow furrowed in an effort to understand the new angel.

"Yes, but I'm afraid I don't have time to explain." Naomi retrieved the ring, stashing it with the two others in her pocket. She glanced up at him again, offering a small smile. "Return to your brother, continue on as you have, I promise, this all will be settled soon."

Sam didn't look like he wanted to take that for an answer, but relented any further questions. They exchanged a short goodbye with more sincere gratitude. Then the two women vanished into the night with naught but a flutter of wings.

London. It was nearing dawn in England, but a dank fog had settled over the city. Not the quiet and peaceful type morning fog, but the night cloud that sucks the life out of everything caught in it's chilly embrace. When Naomi landed, she'd been searching for Death. However, it seemed she would not have to actually go looking for him.

Death had come to them.

The reapers stood in rows around Mycroft's estate, hundreds of them at attention. They weren't moving, just staring at the house with cold, unfeeling eyes. _Waiting._ Waiting for people to die.

Molly's heart caught in her throat, and she hadn't moved from where she was tucked next to Naomi. Fear had clutched her chest, making it hard to breath. Not that she could see them, but she _felt_ them. She'd seen enough death to recognize the coldness and emptiness that came with it.

The angel turned towards her, using her free hand to cup Molly's cheek. Eyes met in the near darkness. Naomi's voice was soft, gentle almost. "Molly, I thank you. Your help has been invaluable, and if this works, the world will be indebted to you. But I fear your part to play is over, I am going to send you home now. I want you to be safe."

"But-but what about you?" Molly's eyes teared up.

Naomi almost smiled. "To be determined. I wish I could say I would see you again, but the probability is very low."

"What's going to happen?"

"What must." Naomi closed the distance and pressed a tender kiss to Molly's forehead. A single action to thank her for her help and friendship. And a wish for a hope of a future. "Good-bye, Molly Hooper."

Without waiting for the woman to protest, or to say any sort of good-bye, Naomi sent her home.

If destiny allowed them to see each other again, so it would be. For the moment…the final step had to be taken.


	3. Chapter 3

In his sitting room with it's large windows and tasteful decor, Mycroft Holmes sat across from Death. To his right was a fire in the fireplace, to his left the tea tray. And in front of him, between he and the skeletally thin Horseman, was a chess board. They'd already exchanged seven turns.

"You came here for a reason, I doubt it's merely the tea and conversation," Mycroft said amiably. "I know who you are, I know what you can do, and I know what you possess. What I want to know is why you saw fit to pay me a visit during the Apocalypse. One I've tried very hard not to be a part of, but has come my way anyways. And you?"

"I'm afraid I cannot do anything about it myself, Mycroft." Bony fingers clasped a Bishop and slid it into place. "This is not my fight."

"Is it not? My angel is hunting down the other rings now, I have no doubt she'll succeed." Mycroft took his turn, leaning back in his seat after he was done. "But the set is not complete until we have yours."

"She did succeed. She is here now." Death said, he too leaning back in his seat. He didn't look at the door, but kept his ancient eyes on Mycroft. "Do come in, Naomi, the tea is still warm. It's quite delicious. A _tamaryokucha_."

Naomi walked into the room, every bit of her a picture of elegance and refined grace, despite her exhaustion. She exchanged a look but no words with Mycroft, and took a seat in another chair close by. "I've had it, it's an excellent brew."

Death didn't smile, but his long fingers tapped together in front of his thin chest. "Now then, tea aside. You would like to get straight to the point. You want my ring. Contrary to what you may think, I also want you to have it."

"You do?" Naomi couldn't help her question, childish as it may be. There were very few things that could make her feel young, and Death seemed to be one of them.

His soulless eyes turned from Mycroft to her. "Lucifer, naught but a baby having a tantrum, has me on a leash, I'd like to get off of it."

Mycroft exhaled slowly. "Very well then. Where were you last week? Why didn't you come to us earlier?"

"I couldn't come to you, Lucifer didn't let me. However, he is currently occupied in an apparently confidential mission, and your angel has assembled all the other pieces." Death took off his ring and dropped in the middle of the chess board. "I want you to lock the whiny child back in the Cage where he belongs. No hesitation, even if it means damning your brother to an eternity of torment. And then I want my ring back."

Mycroft stiffened with apprehension, but reached forward to pick the ring up. It was heavier than it looked. Whether that was his brother's fate or a phenomenon of the supernatural, he didn't know. "Do you know where he will be?"

Death sat back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his chest. "Highgate Cemetery, I believe it's just a short jaunt away. That's where they will be tomorrow afternoon. Both of them, Michael and Lucifer." He tapped his fingers together in a way that was very similar to both of the Holmes brothers. "I do wish you well. Should you fail, I will be there to move you on. Though I doubt that's an option you'll enjoy. Don't let me down."

Death disappeared. Not with a flutter of feathers as the angels, but just vanished. As if he'd never been there.

Mycroft stole a glance at the ring in his hand again, an empty sinking feeling settled in his chest. "Tomorrow then," he said, more to himself than to Naomi. He glanced at her. "Don't expect me to stay behind. You need my help."

She moved off her chair and knelt at his feet. Her hands closed around his, bearing the weight of it together. He wasn't lying. There was no way to tackle two archangels single-handedly, even with the rings. As much as she didn't want to put him in danger, she had to. "Tomorrow. We will finish this together."

"The other rings?"

"Here," Naomi loosed one of her hands so she could pull out the three rings. Evidence of her mission these last few days.

Mycroft took them, making room on the abandoned chess board to set the rings as Death had instructed prior to Naomi's arrival. With just a bit of encouragement, they hummed ominously, snapping together in formation. Mycroft just stared at them, repeating the spell in his mind rather than aloud. _Bvtmon tabges babalon._

They spent the next several hours going over eventualities, possibilities, and plans. Anything that could go wrong was accounted for. Any way they could save Sherlock was put in priority. There was tea shared, and then wine with a meal, as their voices spoke over the soft crackle of the fireplace.

When the clock struck one and the fire had died down again, Naomi set down the rings, stood, and offered Mycroft her hand. "I think we're done. Whatever happens tomorrow, it will be all we could do."

Mycroft took her hand and stood from his chair as gracefully as middle-age would let him. He used their clasped hands to pull her closer to him, as close as their bodies could be without touching.

Naomi had lost her shoes hours previous, so her head was tilted back just a bit to look up at him. Sadness crowded his deep blue eyes. But there was something else there too, Naomi couldn't quite identify it.

Until he kissed her.

Their lips met softly, but the heat turned up before two seconds had passed. Naomi let go of his hand to wrap her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. His hands travelled to her hips and rested there. Tentatively. Curiously. Experimentally.

They'd never done this before, not in years of companionship and friendship. There'd been no need and no time. Now it seems as if they couldn't stop. Once Naomi ended up backed against the wall, they decided to take their physical curiosity elsewhere. And safely tucked under the silk sheets of his king sized bed, they explored each other in a new way. A way that released the mounting tension and gave them both a distraction from their probable death.

The world was ending and there was a distinct possibility one or both of them would die. It seemed like both the best and worst time to delve into this experience.

Neither minded. And between panting breaths and racing hearts, they shared one confession.

 _I love you. I've always loved you._

Mycroft fell asleep shortly after they stilled together, at rest and at peace in the arms of his angel. Naomi tucked him close, breathing in and out with him. Tired wings wrapped them in a sanctuary that blocked out the rest of the crumbling world.

The morning light would shatter that peace soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft and Naomi had Plan A, and a Plan B, and a dozen or so other ways of going about the mission until they reached their endgame. Lucifer would be put in the Cage, the Apocalypse would cease. If there was a way to save Sherlock, they'd do that first. But Lucifer's claws were too tight in his true vessel, it would be near impossible.

Unless Naomi could convince him to take her vessel. The woman's soul had already been moved away to heaven, so the only sacrifice was herself. She hadn't told Mycroft this, not even after he'd told her of his love. It was the cruelest choice to be forced to prioritize one's lover or one's brother. She wouldn't make Mycroft choose.

With a gentle kiss good-bye Naomi left Mycroft early afternoon, intent on preparing her side of the attack. One last weapon.

Mycroft took his sleek black Jaguar out alone. He'd dressed down for the occasion, since there was little point to his usual attire. His black suit jacket was thrown over a light blue shirt that left two buttons undone, and a black overcoat draped his tall frame. Not to dissimilar to what his brother usually wore. No waist coat, no pocket watch, no tie or matching pocket square.

The Highgate Cemetery was deserted today. Probably because the foreboding feeling, one that tasted like death, grew stronger every meter he drew closer to the supposed haunted burial grounds. His knuckles had turned white where they gripped the steering wheel.

All alone, Mycroft pulled his car to a stop in the middle of a small grassy area and stepped out into the cloudy London afternoon.

In front of him stood two men, distanced between several dilapidated graves. One was their third brother, tall and thin and just as Mycroft had remembered seeing him from a decade and a half before. There was a bit less hair and a few more wrinkles, but nothing had changed.

Save the archangel that occupied him now.

And there was Sherlock. He wore an impassive but superior expression, one could almost mistake him for himself. Then again, maybe he and Lucifer weren't too different after all.

Lucifer spoke and Sherlock's voice took a mocking tone. "Brother dear, what are you doing here? One would think you had…another angel to occupy your time with."

Mycroft's face set in stone and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, fingers playing with the four rings. "I'm here to speak to my brother, not to you," he said firmly.

"You know that won't work, you'll be dead before you finished the incantation." Lucifer pointed at his pocket. Of course he knew.

"This is not your fight, Mycroft. You must leave." Michael spoke next, taking a step forward and raising a hand. Whether to smite him or to send him away, Mycroft didn't know. He tensed unconsciously, praying for Naomi.

"Michael! Get away from him." Naomi appeared in the graveyard with a flutter of feathers. But without hesitation, she threw a homemade holy oil explosive at the archangel in question.

Michael screamed out, the flash of holy fire quickly consumed his body until he vanished. Not dead, certainly not, but it gave them a bit of time to save Sherlock. Naomi glanced at Mycroft, catching his eye. "We don't have much time before he comes back."

Lucifer was furious and the ground quaked underneath them. Gravestones cracked and trees quivered. "Did you just molotov my brother…with holy fire?" His words passed out of his mouth like cold daggers.

Naomi shifted towards Mycroft, but she wore her defiance like a crown. "I believe I just did. In case you missed it. I have a proposition for you-"

Lucifer interrupted. "No one messes with my brother except for me."

His fingers snapped and Naomi exploded. Her vessel and grace destroyed in one single moment. Mycroft turned away, but her blood and flesh splattered over his sleeve and back. His lips pressed into a thin line and his chest pinched painfully as realization hit. And it shocked him to his very core. He would grieve her loss properly later, because he had work to do. With Naomi dead…he only had a few options left.

Mycroft cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure. "Sherlock, listen to me."

"Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock._ " Lucifer mocked, stepping towards Mycroft purposefully. "He can't do anything, stupid little man. You do realize that, don't you? This is final. This bond is forever." He laughed. Sherlock's familiar deep chuckle was twisted into something dark.

Lucifer flicked his hand and Mycroft's fragile human body went flying backwards into the windscreen of his car. The glass cracked around him and he fell off of the bonnet and onto the scraggly green grass.

Mycroft's sharp blue eyes riveted to the face of his brother, focused through the pain and the shock. He couldn't help but see his little brother as a child, that little boy that came running to him with a skinned knee or a new bug for his collection.

But that face wore a foreign expression now. Lips pulled into a sinister smirk. "Brother dear, you knew it'd come to this. How could you not? Surely you could have _deduced_ that little Sherly would let me hitch a ride. He has enough pressure points, it wasn't that hard to figure it out. He wanted this, no matter how much you didn't want him to."

Mycroft scrambled backwards until he hit the side of his black Jaguar again. Lucifer closed the distance too quickly. His hand fisted into Mycroft's shirt and he half picked him up off the ground.

"He is going to enjoy this, you know, watching his own hands tear you to pieces." Lucifer sneered. "Horribly jealous of his bigger, stronger, smarter older brother. It's touching. I couldn't be prouder."

Then the punches fell. Mycroft cried out initially, but after two or three hits he had nearly blacked out. His middle-aged body was betraying him. The pain was too great and his brain was most certainly concussed, broken nose, broken cheek bone, cracked jaw. It was after he went limp that Lucifer held back a punch and instead snapped his fingers. Mycroft's femur broke with a loud crack. He let out a strangled scream.

Agony, pure and unadulterated agony. Mycroft couldn't escape it. For even as he was descending into unconsciousness, Lucifer kept him awake by smoothing a hand down his cheek, almost tenderly. Mycroft was disgusted by it.

Lucifer breathed in the smells of pain and blood. "There, there, _brother mine_. You're not going to escape just yet, I'm not done. He is going to feel _everything_ I do to you, every fear and every private horror…"

"Sherlock…Sherly please." Mycroft gasped. His eyes pinched closed as his broken bones grated against each other. He wasn't sure he could watch his brother's face now. Another punch. "Sherly, I love you…"

 _I love you._ How long had it been since he'd said those three words aloud to his brother? Decades perhaps, when Sherlock was still a child. It wasn't a sentiment he felt the need to indulge in with anyone, prior to last night of course. Maybe he should have. Maybe he should have reminded his brother he loved him. "…Sherly, I do, I do love you."

Lucifer froze, his clear blue eyes blinked in quick succession as something changed.

"My?"

The one childhood nickname came out so quietly, Mycroft was almost sure that his brother was a six year old boy again. That one word washed over him like a wave of relief. False relief perhaps, brought about by his mind's attempt to comfort him in his last moments.

"Oh God." Sherlock's hand loosed in Mycroft's shirt and the elder brother collapsed to the ground with another tortured cry. One that nearly left him unconscious. "My…I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this."

Mycroft was struggling to breathe, but he tipped his head up and opened his blackened eyes as much as he could. "Sherly…"

"It's okay, Mycroft. I've got him now. I'm going to save you." Sherlock fished the rings out of Mycroft's suit jacket. Rings given to them by the now dead angel, Naomi's last victory. "I'm going to save everyone. Don't worry about me. I already know what to do." He backed away quickly, giving enough space to do what needed doing.

"No, Sh…Sherlock."

Sherlock spoke over him as the rings fell to the green earth. His expression was almost serene, but completely focused as the chant left his lips. _"Bvtmon tabges babalon…"_

A cavernous hole cracked open the earth, the open mouth yawning with howling winds and a dark emptiness that perpetrated the quiet cemetery. Sherlock breathed in deeply, fighting with Lucifer inside himself. He met his brother's eyes, silently pleading. _Take care of John. Take care of yourself. I'm sorry._ "I love you too."

Sherlock stepped backwards towards a fate worse than death, courageous in the face of the deepest layer of Hell itself. Bravery _was_ the kindest word for stupidity.

Then Michael was back, in a flash of bright white light. His hands desperately reaching for Sherlock to prevent him from falling. "No! You can't do this!"

Sherlock hooked fingers into the other one's shirt and, without ceremony or pause, pulled hard. They fell backwards into the hole.

It was slow motion for Mycroft. His hand reached instinctively reached out for them both, maybe he could save them, maybe he was clever enough to stop it. But Sherlock fell nevertheless.

"SHERLOCK!"

Then they were gone. The earth closed up with a sucking sound, the darkness was gone. No sound but a quiet breeze and some birds in the trees. Mycroft collapsed into the grass in uncontrollable sobs, letting himself go. He wanted to die, right then and there, for he was broken in both body and soul. Death would be far kinder.

* * *

Three minutes later, Naomi landed in a flutter of quiet feathers. Why she was there, how she got there...those questions would be for another time. She was supposed to be dead, Mycroft had her blood on his suit even still. It mingled with his own. He was slower than he would care to admit. Didn't matter, he didn't have to be anything more than a broken man right then.

"Sherly." He whispered again, but the green grass and quiet breeze didn't answer him.

His angel knelt in front of him. Her hands gentle where she cupped his face. The wounds healed instantly, the beating he'd sustained was gone, broken leg mended. It didn't help the hole in his heart or the ache of sentimentality. But the physical healing washed over him like a warm wave.

"Mycroft, I'm so sorry." Naomi's voice shook and only then was it apparent she was crying too.

"He…he chose that. I couldn't save him." Mycroft replied, but he didn't quite recognize his voice.

"I know," she said. "But he saved you."

It didn't matter who made the first move. Who pulled who into comforting arms, but angel and human drew each other close. Mycroft's quiet cries were lost with Naomi's soothing words and the call of the wind. He grieved his broken heart and his lost brother.


	5. Chapter 5

Not long afterward Sherlock fell into Hell and Mycroft's sobs had stilled, Naomi flew them both to his home. Mycroft took comfort in the simple fact of Naomi's presence, and there were very few words exchanged initially. They stripped off their battle clothes and curled up in bed together. Hours of silence passed. Hours of dim lights, gentle touches, quiet tears, and understanding looks.

Then the questions came. The theories as to why Naomi was suddenly alive again specifically. Neither had concrete answers, though Naomi had a thoughtful hope that the absent God had something to do with it. There was also questions about what could be done for Sherlock.

Naomi just shook her head.

Weeks passed and life resumed. Not as it always had, of course, but it went on. Mycroft's broken heart was far from repaired, and it was likely that'd never be the case, but his broken pieces were held together by the hands of a gentle and terrifying angel.

Eventually Naomi went back to Heaven, which had fallen into Raphael's control. She asserted herself back in the ranks after a deal was made. Her part in stopping the Apocalypse and caging Michael and Lucifer was not forgotten. But she thought she could do more good as part of the system rather than working outside of it, so she made some promotional sacrifices and began work again.

A year passed. And then another. Life moved on.

John Watson found a wonderful woman named Mary after he'd started working again. She helped him heal. She accepted him. And although John still suffered greatly because of Sherlock's loss, he had his life back little by little.

Molly didn't move on really. She tried, but things fell through with Tom and she found herself alone again. Her heartbreak then was nothing compared to the heartbreak she felt when they'd lost Sherlock.

Naomi kept contact with Molly, and the two met for tea or wine at least once a month. There was always a quiet kinship between the two. The angel did spend quite a bit of time with Mycroft. Theirs wasn't a traditional relationship. There wasn't home cooked meals, children running about, arguments about the tapestries, or talk about the weather. Instead there were passionate weekends together, traveling, sharing stories about work, and quiet games of chess. Naomi would leave him with a kiss, and head back to Heaven for weeks on end. But it worked for them and slowly, ever so slowly, they began to heal.

One summer evening, two years after the end of the Apocalypse, Mycroft came home from another work day. He pulled off the cold-hearted IceMan that ran Great Britain and let out the broken human that he was instead. He was getting older, the IceMan exhausted him some days. He was expecting Naomi sometime this weekend, since it'd been a month since she last visited. That possibility alone made him almost smile.

He was not, however, expecting the guest that did show.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes sat by a roaring fire. His silver blue eyes were on the flames, and other than a single finger tapping on the arm rest, he was completely still.

Mycroft's beloved umbrella clattered to the ground.

"Sherlock."

The name came out in a whisper. Mycroft couldn't move, couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. A million thoughts ran through his mind in a split second: _shapeshifter, illusion, possible demon possession of a body, angel, mental manipulation, possible…_

Mycroft Holmes didn't care. And long strides ate up the distance until he was crouching next to Sherlock's chair, blue eyes worried, hand on the arm rest, just a touch away from Sherlock's tapping hand. His chest tightened noticeably. He had no idea what Sherlock had been through. What was the likely fallout from two years of absence…

"Sherlock?"

"It's me." Sherlock hadn't turned to look quite yet, eyes still riveted to the fire. "I'm here, and myself so far as I could tell."

"I'd…hoped." Mycroft was at a loss for words. He'd walked through every scenario of Sherlock's return already a thousand times. He hadn't expected the hurt to come with the relief. "Are you…are all right?"

Sherlock huffed mirthlessly, only then turning to look at Mycroft. The light from the fire reflected in their blue eyes. "No, I don't think I am….she…she put a block or something in my memory."

"She?" Mycroft raised his brows. "Naomi? Did she save you?"

"I…I think so." Sherlock's composure was crumbling, his breaths coming faster and faster. "I can't remember but flashes. Fire, ice, screaming. She says it was two years. Two years is an eternity in Hell. I'm not supposed to try to remember."

Mycroft shifted his hand to cover Sherlock's, relieved when his little brother didn't startle or pull away. "You're dead, legally speaking, naturally that's only a technicality. But everyone thinks so. I… _I_ thought you were gone." He made a note to call for Naomi later, there must be a reason she hadn't been able to make it. For the moment his thoughts were elsewhere. On a little curly haired boy, reading books by the window, bug collections, skinned knees and red dog hair…his chest tightened again.

"What do you need?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, blocking out the flames from view. "I don't know, My." His next breath was shuttering. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do next."

Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's hand. "You're going to stay with me until we get everything sorted. You're going to see John, and Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, whoever you deem you need to be with. You're going to heal. And you're going to get back to work."

"I think I want a dog too," Sherlock said, agreeing to Mycroft's plan without saying so in so many words. "Weimaraner, or…or a Bloodhound."

Mycroft nearly lost him composure then too, and struggled long seconds before he was sure he wouldn't cry. Two years of missing his little brother brought him here. Two years of trying to find a life where Sherlock wasn't the sole focus of his mission. Two years of pain all around the board, struggling through the hole that Sherlock's sacrifice had left. Two years wondering what excruciating pain Sherlock was going through every minute of every day. Two years.

Mycroft stood from his crouch, moving his hand from Sherlock's to his shoulder. He squeezed again, letting that be the three words he wanted to say again. _I love you, brother mine._ "Come then, brother dear. Let's start with something to eat."


End file.
